


Stage Two

by Feralious



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Assault, Choking, Five Stages of Grief, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-24 23:12:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1620386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feralious/pseuds/Feralious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The second stage of grief is anger, which may be aimed at any random person. A stranger. A friend. A relative.</p><p>In Will's case, it's aimed at the one responsible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stage Two

**Author's Note:**

> I'm already trying to cope with the upcoming season finale.

He’s hitting him in the chest, fists clenched; he’s screaming, crying, the only words coming out of his mouth “I’ll kill you, I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”

He’s not stopping him.

Hannibal indulges him, lets Will unleash all of his anger and sadness and the darkness he’s planted inside him.

After all, he is responsible.

“It had to be done, Will,” he says quietly, his face twitching in pain. If Will had been looking at him he’d wonder if it was because of the physical attack or because of what happened.

“ _No_ ,” he cries out. “ _No_ , no, no…”

He’s quiet for a few seconds. Closes his eyes. Stops beating on him.

When he opens them, they’re dark, empty. The pain inside buried deep, so deep, but he can feel it’s there.

The hands on his chest move to wrap around his throat, the warm fingers raw against his skin. He looks at him, wonders if this is the exact picture of how he had imagined killing him.

He still doesn’t fight him. Still allows Will to do what he needs to do. He needs to be punished. He doesn’t want to _die_ , but he owes Will this. After what he’s done, he needs to accept whatever he has coming.

The pressure on this throat keeps increasing, and it’s getting harder and harder to breathe. Will is squeezing the life out of him, and for a moment he’s reminded of his previous attempt to murder him.

“Are you afraid to die, Dr. Lecter?” Will asks, voice dripping with venom, otherwise void of emotions. He must have noticed the way his eyes momentarily lit up with fear, the quickening of his heartbeat.

As best he can he shakes his head, calming himself. Will isn’t going to kill him. Not now. He’s too overcome with grief and has too many questions. Keeps telling himself that a worse fate for Hannibal is to be imprisoned, to be shown to be fallible. Human.

His head is starting to hurt, the lack of oxygen causing the edges of his vision to grow blurry. And still he doesn’t fight him.

The lack of fear – because by now he’s just staring him in the eye, gaze cool and composed, almost daring him to finish him off – seems to enrage him once more, and Will lets go with one hand to punch him in the face, hard.

Even with just one hand gripping his throat Hannibal doesn’t make any attempt to fight him, though Will knows he could, knows he should. Knows that Hannibal could overpower him even in his current state.

So why doesn’t he?

Could it really be that he regrets what he’s done, that it hurts him as much as it hurts Will?

He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know and he can’t stand it anymore, can’t stand the pain, the sorrow, the reality of it all. And Hannibal can see it all play out on his face, knows him better than Will knows himself.

His vice-like hold on him loosens, and Hannibal draws in careful, controlled breaths as the fingers slip from his throat. His hands feel heavy on his chest, and for a second they just lay there as Will averts his gaze, looks at his hands, consumed by his own emotions.

“Will.” It’s the first thing he’s said to him in a long time, and the sound of his voice seems to snap him back to reality. Instinctively his fingers wrap themselves in the fabric of his shirt, trembling, wet with his tears.

“I’m sorry.”

He’s broken, he’s broken down and not even Hannibal can pick up the pieces this time. He lowers his head, rests it against his bruised, battered chest. Allows the tears to spill. He’s sobbing loudly and uncontrollably; lets Hannibal wrap him into his arms.

“Me too... I’m sorry I let you take her.” He’s fragile, fragile like a teacup he’s dropped to the floor and cracked, but hasn’t yet broken into pieces. But if he picked it up, it just might fall apart under his touch.

“I’m sorry you couldn’t stop me.”

Hannibal is holding him, has a hand on the back of his head, an arm wrapped around his waist. He could do so many awful, horrible things to him in this position; could kill him like Will had attempted before, but the thought doesn’t even occur to him. He has already hurt him, has hurt him beyond repair; has shattered whatever had been left of him after he’d come to realize what Hannibal Lecter was.

And he isn’t lying, not this time. He truly regrets what he’s done, but doesn’t wish he could take it back. He knows that if he could, he’d have to do it all over again, and one time was enough, one time was more than enough.

They had lost that which had brought them together in the first place. And now they only had each other, despite various attempts to destroy each other’s lives.

He waits for him to calm down, for the tears to stop falling. It takes a long time, and he waits, waits patiently, until he finally gets quiet, finally stops shivering against him. He waits for the adrenaline to drain from him.

That’s when he takes his chance.

Within moments he has his hands around Will’s neck, squeezing down forcefully while making sure not to put any pressure on his trachea. He catches him by surprise; he can’t see his eyes, but he feels his muscles tensing, a sudden gasp of breath.

He struggles, but he doesn’t have the strength in him anymore; doesn’t fight him like his life depends on it simply because he _can’t_. He’s exhausted, and Hannibal’s grip is so powerful and precise that it takes less than ten seconds for him to pass out.

He could kill him.

He could just hold on a little longer, could wait for the pulse beneath his fingers to disappear. He could make sure he would never feel that pain again.

He doesn’t.

He drops his limp body to the floor – would’ve laid him down carefully, but he’s stressed for time – and, all the while counting the seconds that pass, quickly makes his way to the closet where he’s stashed a bag with medical supplies just like the one in his office. He fills up a syringe and is back with the sedative even before Will starts coming to again; rolls him to his side, locates the artery in his neck and meticulously applies a dose that will keep him knocked out for about an hour, enough time for Hannibal to make his escape.

He checks his head for any unforeseen injuries in case he’d hit something on the way down, but there doesn’t seem to be any damage. Physical damage, anyway.

His mind is already torn apart, with no hopes of it ever coming fully back together.

He brushes fingers over his cheek, gazes upon his creation, his victim, his _friend_. A loving gesture from someone incapable of love the way humans experience it. His is inherently selfish; toys created to provide him with his own amusement.

It doesn’t mean he hasn’t grown to love them in his own twisted way. But just because he loved them doesn’t mean he is incapable of doing what needs to be done, however much he might miss having them around.

God kills His loved ones too.

He gets up, goes to retrieve the packed bags hidden in his basement awaiting this day. Walks through his entire home one last time, but avoids the bedroom.

He places his bags at the door, hand on the handle when he changes his mind, checks his watch.

He walks back to where he’s left Will. Strong hands pull his unconscious body from the floor and he carries him, almost like a child; walks to his car and gently lays him down on the backseat before placing his bags in the trunk.

He drives over to his office, leaves Will in the chair he’d always occupied when he and Hannibal had first had their talks and later after he resumed his therapy. He writes a note and sets it down underneath the statue of the stag, taking one last look at him and muttering a soft “Goodbye, Will” before he leaves.

Will would find it when he woke up, would take it before the crime scene investigators arrived to search Hannibal’s properties. When he does, he doesn’t crumple it or throw it away. Instead he pockets it, places it on his nightstand when he gets home, so that it’ll be the first thing he sees when he wakes up and the last thing he sees when he goes to bed. Because it’s a promise Hannibal’s made him, a promise Will has made him before. A promise both of them intend to keep, however long it will take.

_I will await your reckoning._


End file.
